


The Sleeping And the Dead

by GestaltHammer



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Everything is awful, Murder, Mystery, Sleep Deprivation, Strong Language, horror film inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-20 06:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GestaltHammer/pseuds/GestaltHammer
Summary: It all starts after an inaugural convention in Myrtle Beach, when Michael learns Jeremy's silly little secret. Except it doesn't seem so little or silly to Michael. Jeremy insists it's normal, but it takes only hours for it to turn sinister and days for it to destroy the company.Starts very normal, gets progressively darker with each chapter. Except three might be the weirdest.





	1. Apnoea

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know that I’d describe this as violent, but it's definitely bloody because I love bad horror films. And full disclosure: I very much struggle with writing Jeremy. So he is probably horribly out of character - more than the others - which is why his role is a lot smaller than the description would lead you to believe – extremely important but small. I have no idea when this is supposed to take place, but Gavin still lives with Geoff, and he and Jeremy are single just for the sake of convenience for their plots. And finally! This chapter includes mild body shaming and the R-word is dropped a couple of times.

_Sunday, 2.52_  
  
Sometimes, for brief stretches of time, Michael thinks he might sincerely hate Gavin. Lying in a bed in South Carolina, listening to Jeremy snore beside him is one of those times. Michael wants to slap Jeremy awake and put a stop to the horrible sounds emanating from the small man's gullet, but that's not fair. Michael isn't mad at Jeremy, after all. Jeremy even warned Michael when he showed up at the young man's hotel room that he snores something awful, but Michael couldn't imagine it being any worse than the mess he left at his own room. No, Michael's sleepless night comes courtesy of the drunk man Michael locked in their shared hotel room. Gavin is the one who wanted to share a room. Gavin is the one who stumbled back to said room at two in the morning, drunk off his arse. Gavin is the one who doesn't know how to drink gracefully, who wants to bounce around, climb, and generally make life miserable for any poor cunt who happens to be hanging about. Wedging a chair under the door handle to ensure Gavin wouldn't follow Michael and would stay safely in the room was probably excessive and ill-advised considering the balcony and full mini bar. But Gavin is still texting Michael every few minutes, variations of “Michael”, “Micoo”, and “Micool”, all autocorrected into nonsense phrases. _micro pleas, Nicole were you :’(,_ and _I must you Mr blog_ are just a few of the dozens of messages of gibberish Michael scrolls through. He aggressively taps out, _Fucking go the fuck to sleep, Gavin._  
  
/Micro/  
  
/*Mucho/  
  
/*Nico/  
  
/*Micoo :3/  
  
\I'm going to punch you in your stupid fucking nose tomorrow morning\  
  
/It is tomorrow morning donut. :)/  
  
\I hate you\  
  
Michael slams his phone down on the nightstand. It lights up again with the receipt of another message, but Michael ignores it. He rolls over so he can't see his phone, but now Jeremy and his gaping maw fall into his immediate field of view. Michael wonders how the sleeping man doesn't startle himself awake with that ruckus. Lindsay snores a bit too, but at least she's cute about it. And she doesn’t take up three-quarters of the bed. How a man of Jeremy’s stature manages to do so is beyond Michael's comprehension. Michael closes his eyes and tries to focus on Lindsay, and the fact that in fewer than 10 hours, he will be back in their bed.

  


_Sunday, 3.56_  
  
Somehow, against all odds, Michael finds himself drifting, not quite sleeping, still vaguely aware of his surroundings but losing consciousness with every passing moment . . . Until Jeremy stops snoring. That snaps Michael out of his shallow doze immediately. He props himself up on one elbow and studies Jeremy's motionless form in the faint moonlight filtering in through the blinds.  
  
His chest isn't moving. Jeremy hasn’t just stopped snoring; he has stopped breathing.  
  
Michael is hit with a panic so overwhelming that for several moments he can't even move. Is Jeremy dying? Is he dead?  
  
‘Jer-Jeremy?’ Michael stammers nervously.  
  
No response.  
  
Michael begins to reach out to shake Jeremy, but before his fingers reach the smaller man's shoulder, Jeremy takes in a horrible, struggling gasp, then another and another before snorting loudly and returning to his snoring.  
  
Michael withdraws his hand quickly and stares in surprise, like Jeremy had bitten him. That isn't normal. That can't be normal. It sounded like he was choking, then suddenly he's fine? No way. Michael doesn't buy it.  
  
He grabs his phone from the nightstand. Four new messages from Gavin. Fuck Gavin.  
  
_3.58_  
  
Michael glances back over at Jeremy, still snoozing, completely unaware he almost fucking died for no apparent reason. Slowly, Michael lays his head back down on his pillow and closes his eyes. Then he panics – visions of waking up beside Jeremy’s cold, dead corpse dancing across the back of his eyelids - and opens one of them again to see Jeremy, perfectly fine, aside from the agonising sounds emanating from his throat. Several more times Michael tries to sleep, but each time he finds himself staring anxiously at the man beside him, anticipating his chest to stop rising and falling again. Eventually, after the seventh or eighth time, Michael decides it's more prudent to stay awake. 

  


_Sunday, 6.30_  
  
At 6.30 in the morning, Michael's and Jeremy's alarms go off simultaneously. Without taking eyes off the younger man, Michael reaches behind him and silences his phone.  
  
Jeremy rolls over and fumbles with his own phone for several seconds before sitting up with a groan, running his fingers through his brightly coloured hair. He looks tired but otherwise unharmed by his apparent inability to breathe like a normal person while asleep. When he notices Michael staring at him through red, unblinking eyes, he jumps and lets out a startled noise, then quickly gathers himself and breaks into quiet laughter.  
  
‘What are you doing?’  
  
‘Did you sleep well, _Jeremy_?’ asks Michael quietly, his voice unsettling with its lack of emotion.  
  
‘I'm gonna guess you didn't.’  
  
‘Just answer the question, Jeremy.’  
  
Jeremy laughs again and crawls out of bed. ‘I dunno. I guess.’  
  
The way Michael's suspicious eyes silently follow Jeremy across the room doesn't go unnoticed.  
  
‘You woke up on the insane side of the bed today, huh?’ Jeremy notes.  
  
‘I -’ Michael starts aggressively, then his face softens, and he just looks confused. ‘Are you okay?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Jeremy replies immediately, then his eyes narrow. ‘Why? Did you do something to me while I was sleeping?’  
  
Normally Michael would chuckle impishly at the accusation, regardless of the honest answer, just to raise suspicion for a little fun, but he's sincerely concerned about Jeremy’s well-being at the moment. Weird. ‘You stopped breathing last night, like, a lot.’  
  
Jeremy looks relieved and chuckles gently. ‘Is that all?’  
  
‘It's not fucking funny, okay!?’ Michael snaps.  
  
‘No, it’s . . . it's cute,’ Jeremy teases.  
  
‘Don't patronise me, Jeremy,’ deadpans Michael.  
  
‘It's sleep apnoea. Super common. Super normal. That's why I snore.’  
  
‘No.’  
  
Jeremy raises a confused eyebrow. ‘No? That's not why I snore?’  
  
‘No, _it’s not normal_!’  
  
‘Okay,’ Jeremy replies easily with a shrug. ‘Well, we need to leave for the airport in half an hour. So if you could take your, hopefully momentary, psychiatric break, and go make sure Gavin’s still alive, that’d be perfect.’  
  
‘I'm not -’ Michael starts, then suddenly stops short. ‘Oh shit, Gavvers.’ He grabs his phone and scrambles out of bed, toward the door. ‘This isn't over,’ he calls to Jeremy before ducking into the hallway.

  


_Sunday, 6.55_  
  
Michael found Gavin sleeping in the bathtub, under a mountain of blankets, sheets, towels, and curtains. The beds were bare, the windows were bare, the bathroom was bare. The mini bar was, oddly, still full. Hungover Gavin didn't have an explanation for any of this, though he assured Michael that Drunk Gavin must have had a very good one. So it was that Michael wasted 15 minutes trying to figure out how to reaffix the shower and window draperies before eventually giving up and accepting that he and Gavin were just going to have to show up at the airport looking and smelling greasy.  
  
Jeremy stops short of mentioning it when they join him in the Uber, though he does note that Gavin still looks like a douche when he wears sunglasses inside (even more so when it's overcast out, like it is today), to which Gavin responds with an eloquently mumbled, ‘Piss off.’  
  
Michael tries to bring up the sleep apnoea thing again, but Jeremy expertly avoids it, instead engaging the driver in conversation about some kid who was found stabbed to death just a few blocks away because apparently _that's_ a more pleasant topic. It's okay. Michael has time.

  


_Sunday, 8.46  
_  
Michael's next opportunity arrives as they wait for their flight. Jeremy returns from Caribou Coffee balancing three cups. He hands the iced one to Michael and lifts up the coat under which Gavin is hiding from the sun to offer him one of the paperboard cups. It's enough to coax Gavin into sitting up, but he keeps his coat over his head.  
  
Michael quietly studies his cup before taking a small sip. He notices Jeremy downing half of his in one gulp.  
  
‘So you _didn't_ sleep well last night?’ asks Michael.  
  
‘I was in the bath, Michael,’ Gavin grumbles.  
  
‘Shut the fuck up, Gavin. No one's talking to you.’  
  
‘This is – Are you really still talking about this?’ Jeremy stammers.  
  
‘No, _we_ are.’  
  
A flicker of annoyance crosses Jeremy’s face before his expression switches back over to amusement. ‘I'm not.’  
  
Others may miss it. Jeremy takes jokes well, has worked with Michael and Gavin long enough to have patience just shy of being saint like or the ability to pretend he does. But Michael knows Jeremy, and he knows Jeremy is sincerely annoyed. He can see it in the tension in the small man's jaw, in his tight grip on his cup; his voice may sound composed, but that gentle smile he plasters on his lips doesn't extend anywhere near his eyes. It's a good thing. It means Michael is already on his way to success; he just has to keep pushing the issue. Jeremy isn't particularly stubborn. Michael isn't sure _what_ he wants from the conversation, but he knows Jeremy will give it to him if he pushes for it hard enough.  
  
‘No, no, you are! Why don't you want to talk about it?’  
  
‘Because it’s stupid,’ Jeremy laughs.  
  
‘But it's, like, affecting your quality of life or whatever.’  
  
‘It isn't. I'm fine. Better than you. Did you sleep at all?’  
  
‘No because you're a fucking retard who never learned how to breathe and sleep at the same time!’  
  
Gavin moans at the volume of Michael's voice. Various passers-by give him dirty looks. Michael really doesn’t care.  
  
That's how the argument goes for the next half hour.

  


_Sunday, 9.17  
_  
The weather is bad, and the plane is late but by less than an hour, so that they're boarding the plane at the time they were originally scheduled to depart. Michael takes the window seat. Jeremy, who is immediately behind Michael, stands to the side and ushers Gavin into the middle seat as a buffer before sitting in the aisle chair. Real mature. Michael waits until they pull away from the gate to confront Jeremy again; Jeremy can't escape once they're on the runway.  
  
‘If you really think having Gavin sitting between us, whining about his hangover is going to stop me from -’  
  
‘Why do you care?’ interrupts Jeremy visibly irritated, and it took almost an hour, but Michael can see the cracks in his armour starting to spread.  
  
‘It's not normal,’ Michael repeats for what must be the fiftieth time in the hour.  
  
‘It really is.’ Michael's persistence has pushed Jeremy far enough that the small man is struggling not to yell out of courtesy to their fellow passengers and Gavin’s constrictive headache. Good. Very good.  
  
‘That's what a doctor would say?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘They would say it’s perfectly fine and healthy to stop breathing repeatedly at night?’  
  
Jeremy hesitates. ‘Not _healthy,_ but . . .’  
  
‘Jesus,’ Gavin moans. ‘That's what this stupid spat's about? Burnie did that when he was fat.’  
  
‘See? And Burnie's fine,’ argues Jeremy.  
  
‘It made him dumber,’ continues Gavin casually.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Makes you dumber, doesn’t it? Not getting enough oxygen to your brain smegs it up? Burnie's well clev now, since he's lost weight.’  
  
‘Yeah,’ agrees Michael enthusiastically. ‘Fat Burnie hired Gavin because he wasn't breathing enough. You’re making yourself retarded, Li'l J!’  
  
A lady passing by gives Michael a disapproving face.  
  
‘Tell him more, Gav,’ Michael nudges.  
  
‘Erm, well, it’s not good for your heart, I think,’ Gavin says meekly. ‘The stress and all.’  
  
‘ _Heart disease, J!_ What else?’  
  
‘I know literally nothing else about it.’  
  
‘Gavin agreeing with you doesn’t add nearly as much credence to what you’re saying as you think it does,’ Jeremy points out.  
  
‘The point is: you’re supposed to fucking breathe. Why’d my parents get upset whenever I would hold my breath until I got what I wanted when I was little?’  
  
‘’Cos you were the baby. Can't do silly rubbish like that when you’re oldest.’  
  
‘Fuck off, Gavin. Have a . . . a kip or whatever. See, he can do that because he knows how to breathe and sleep at the same time, like a normal fucking human.’  
  
‘But he needs to listen to the safety demonstration,’ Jeremy mumbles.  
  
‘No, fuck all that.’  
  
Jeremy makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh and drags a hand over his tired face. ‘What do you want from me?’  
  
‘I'm just lookin' out for you, Jeremy. I look out for my boys.’  
  
‘Is that what you did for Gavin last night?’ asks Jeremy, forcing a spark of playfulness into his voice to mask his aggression.  
  
‘He’s alive, isn't he?’  
  
‘What if he wandered off the balcony?’  
  
Michael shrugs. He tries to make it nonchalant, but yeah, it’s a valid point. Sober Gavin wouldn't be dumb enough to try and escape from the balcony, unless it was to win a bet, but drunk Gavin . . . Well, Michael never thought Drunk Gavin would tear down curtains and sleep in a bathtub, so that's a toss-up.  
  
‘We were on the second floor,’ is Michael's meagre justification.  
  
‘First,’ corrects Gavin, from beneath the hood of his jacket.  
  
‘Seriously, fuck off. _Second floor._ ’  
  
‘The lobby’s -’  
  
‘The first floor is the goddamned ground floor!’  
  
Gavin is too tired to fight it and doesn’t want the flight attendants to boot any of them from the plane, so he drops it and curls up, ignoring the ongoing safety demonstration that paused briefly so everyone in eyeshot could glare at Michael.  
  
‘We were on the second floor,’ continues Michael in a lower voice. ‘Even if he fell from there, he woulda been fine.’  
  
‘Sure, I mean it's not like it was all pavement and concrete out the window, or anything dangerous like that . . .’ Jeremy trails off, letting the sarcastic words hit their mark.  
  
‘You're a real bitch. You know that?’ Michael sneers. ‘It's not like you were rushing to his aid last night, either.’  
  
‘Yeah, but I wanted to sleep, so -’  
  
‘Me too! That's why I locked Gavin's sorry ass in the hotel room.’  
  
‘I'm sat between you!’ cries Gavin defensively. ‘’m not bloody deaf. Stop being horrible.’  
  
Michael's voice grows piercingly shrill as he jumps into a harsh mimicry of Gavin. ‘Oh Micoo, stop being horrible, or I'll be absolutely cross with you, I will!’  
  
‘Excuse me gentlemen!’  
  
Jeremy and Gavin jump at the sharp intrusion then look up into the displeased face of the flight attendant.  
  
‘If this behaviour continues, we will be forced to return to the gate and escort you from the aircraft.’  
  
‘Save it for the flight. Got it,’ Gavin says unhelpfully.  
  
‘He's joking,’ insists Jeremy.  
  
The flight attendant still gives a disapproving face before disappearing into the back of the plane. Michael twists around in his seat to watch her go then returns his attention to Jeremy, leaning across Gavin to get in the small man's face. ‘I just don't want you to die from something with an easy fix. If you've seen a doctor, and they said, _yeah, the way your dumbass breathes at night is a-okay,_ then fuck, whatever. But if not, and you’re killing your heart and your brain and potentially leaving your friends and family behind because you're too stupid to do something, I think it's really shitty. And that's all I'll say about it.’  
  
Michael settles back in his seat to await take-off, and lets the silence fester beside him.  
  
‘Brutal,’ Gavin mumbles to Jeremy, then slumps into his chair and over onto Michael's shoulder to sleep.  
  
Jeremy says nothing.

  


_Sunday, 11.13  
_  
There isn't a single airline that offers nonstop flights from Myrtle Beach to Austin, so they have to deplane for an hour in Atlanta. Gavin really must have overdone it last night because he only wakes up long enough to find somewhere else to curl up and go back to sleep. Jeremy hasn't spoken to his companions since before take-off in Myrtle Beach, and Michael has only had a couple brief, semi-coherent conversations with Gavin when Jeremy breaks the silence by offering to buy Michael a Red Bull in one of the concourse stores, which Michael happily accepts. After Jeremy disappears into the crowds, Michael sinks to the ground amongst their luggage, next to the bench Gavin is lying on to play a few rounds of Crossy Road on his phone.  
  
Jeremy returns almost fifteen minutes later with three Red Bulls and some bagels. Jeremy joins Michael on the ground, handing the taller man two cans as he descends. They don't bother waking Gavin, eating in that same uncomfortable silence they endured on the plane until Jeremy interrupts it, saying, ‘I already saw a doctor about it.’  
  
Michael looks at him with raised eyebrows but says nothing.  
  
‘They told me to go on a diet and gave me a CPAP,’ continues Jeremy in lieu of a verbal response from Michael.  
  
‘Like one of those breathing machines?’  
  
‘Yeah, and it really sucks. It's loud and uncomfortable, so I just don't use it.’  
  
‘Stupid,’ grumbles Michael.  
  
‘But you kind of made a point. I mean, I don't think it affects me too much now, but . . . I dunno. Long term it could be bad.’  
  
Michael's face brightens a few notches. ‘Definitely, dude.’  
  
‘So I think I'll,’ Jeremy pauses and sighs, sounding utterly defeated. ‘I'll use the shitty CPAP.’  
  
Michael's expression lights up. ‘You better be fucking serious.’  
  
Jeremy laughs. ‘Yeah, I am.’  
  
They fall back into easy conversation after, Michael just a touch smug about his victory.

  


_Sunday, 18.30  
_  
Jeremy looks confused when he answers the door and finds Michael stood on the landing outside his flat with a pillow tucked under one arm.  
  
‘Hey Roomie,’ Michael says and pushes his way into the flat before Jeremy can question him.  
  
‘Did Lindsay kick you out?’  
  
‘Nope. I just wanna make sure you stay true to your word.’  
  
Jeremy stares blankly for a moment, his lips parted and brow furrowed. Michael thinks he may have finally broken the little man. Then Jeremy snaps out of it with a snarky, ‘All I got out of that is you’d rather sleep with me than your wife, for whatever reason.’  
  
‘Please, Jeremy. No need to be foul. Besides, I won’t be in your bed. I had enough of that to last a lifetime. I'll just crash on the couch,’ Michael says, casually tossing his pillow on the aforementioned piece of furniture. He waits an awkward moment before sitting down himself and asking, ‘So, you got anything to drink?’  
  
With a defeated sigh, Jeremy replies, ‘PBR.’  
  
‘Li’l J, keeping it classy,’ Michael says with a grin.  
  
‘Do you want one or not?’  
  
‘What I want is for you to throw it away. See, I've been doing research, and -’  
  
‘Michael, no,’ Jeremy whinges.  
  
‘Hear me out. If you get in shape, you probably won’t even need that stupid machine. So I talked to Blaine because I _kinda_ know this shit, but he _really_ knows it, and he said -’  
  
‘Everyone knows how to lose weight, Michael,’ interrupts Jeremy. ‘It's actually doing it that's the problem.’  
  
‘And I'm great at getting shit done. Guess who got that office that was temporarily turned into a junk closet cleaned up.’  
  
‘That was Mica and Matt.’  
  
‘Yeah, but I motivated them.’  
  
‘Did you yell at them?’  
  
‘No. I didn't yell. I never yell.’  
  
Jeremy makes a sceptical face – about the first statement, not the second one; the second one was obviously a joke, but Jeremy doesn't seem to know how to interpret the first.  
  
‘So here's the plan: tonight, do whatever the fuck you want – eat, drink, be merry, whatever, but still wear your breathing Bane mask when you sleep, and tomorrow, we’re doing it right. I'm talking going for a run and to the gym before work, eating bunny food and protein, and kicking sleep apnoea’s ass.’  
  
Jeremy fixes Michael with a dead eyed stare. ‘I'm going to bed,’ he says impassively. ‘Spare blankets are in the cupboard. Good night, Michael.’  
  
The door to Jeremy's bedroom is closed before Michael can reply in turn.

  
__

_Monday, 6.00  
_  
Michael maxed out the volume on his alarm before going to sleep, hoping it would be loud enough to rouse Jeremy through the wall. He lets it fill the air for a couple of minutes before resigning to waking Jeremy himself. He extracts himself from the blankets and tries to make as much noise as he can as he stomps through the flat, to Jeremy's closed door. Through the cheap wood panelling, Michael can hear the CPAP system. It isn't nearly as loud as Jeremy indicated it was. Michael had expected clanging and whirring and beeping. It just sounds like air running through a tube.  
  
‘Li'l J!’ calls Michael, pounding a fist on the door. ‘It’s time to wake the fuck up.’  
  
Michael waits a few seconds for a response. Aside from the machine, he doesn’t hear anything, not even movement in the room.  
  
‘Jeremy!’ he barks aggressively. ‘If you don't get your ass out here, I'm coming in.’  
  
Still nothing. What a stubborn brat.  
  
‘You better not be naked! I'm coming in!’ Michael yells. He grabs the handle and gives it a firm twist.  
  
Locked.  
  
‘Real fucking mature. I do know how to pick a lock now. I've broken into Gavin's office like eight times. Yeah, that's right. I'm the one who keeps leaving piles of pennies in there.’  
  
Jeremy continues giving him the cold shoulder, calling his bluff.  
  
Michael glances down at the doorknob still clutched in his hand and smiles. He may have been lying about his lock picking abilities, but he's more than capable of undoing the screws that anchor the handle. It takes him only minutes to locate a screwdriver and get to work on that doorknob. His early morning brain is briefly confused by lefty-loosey, righty-tighty (is it the top or bottom that needs to go left?), but he figures it out, and soon the handle falls to the carpet by his knees, and the door opens inwards a few inches. Remaining on his knees, Michael gives the door a push, and it swings all the way open. He throws two fists in the air victoriously.  
  
‘I told ya, man. I get shit done!’ crows Michael into the dark room.  
  
Still silence.  
  
It's the first time it occurs to Michael that he wouldn't be remiss in being a little worried. ‘Jeremy?’ he calls, voice gentler as he climbs to his feet.  
  
The sun is just starting to rise, and the room is lit only by the light from the hallway and the street lamp outside the window. Michael can vaguely make out Jeremy's spread-eagle form on the bed and a pile of blankets on the floor. Michael runs his arm up the adjacent wall, searching blindly for the light switch. He overshoots it, his forearm bumps against the switch, flipping it up and bathing the room in light that makes Michael flinch as his eyes adjust.  
  
Red. It's covering the bed, sprayed up the walls, dripping on the floor. Some of it isn't red. Some of it has dried brown in places where it’s thinner, but Michael's brain still registers red because he knows that's what blood is supposed to look like, even if it seems like there's far too much of it here for it to possibly be blood.  
  
It takes several seconds for his higher functions to kick in and supersede his lizard brain. He sees Jeremy's phone, sitting inert on the bedside table and goes for it. There's no point in trying to rouse Jeremy. He knows it, but he can't stop himself from trying, once he's dialled up emergency services.  
  
Jeremy’s body is cold, long dead. It's impossible. Michael was just in the other room all night. The doors were locked, the windows latched, and yet . . .  
  
Michael knows it'll be worse in a few hours, that the implications of this haven't quite sunk in, and he should be grateful for that because once they have, he doesn't know how functional he’ll be. But he can feel himself going under, losing it, even as the operator answers his call, ‘Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?’  
  
He gulps, feels his breath tremble as he exhales, his ability to maintain composure already slipping. ‘Yeah, uh, my friend’s dead.’


	2. Detainment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to give this story one more chance to perform better before moving on to greener (or at least different) pastures (aka: other stories)! Piss poor flow in this one. I wrote most of part two and some of the conversations between Ryan and Gavin way before I even touched part one. I tried to sort it.

_Monday, 9.45  
_  
Ryan isn't late. Not really. He likes to be at work by nine, but everyone else is always stumbling in around ten. Geoff and Michael will still give him shit about it, but Ryan spent the entirety of the night and the majority of the early morning coping with a household infected with a particularly vicious strain of the stomach flu. As he pulls into the parking lot, part of him is sure he won't make it through the full day at work. He’ll probably have to return home to help his ailing wife take care of their equally ailing children. Then he notices several squad cars parked crookedly, in front of the office - one of them is effectively blocking in four vehicles – and his family is pushed to the back of his mind.  
  
He can practically feel the tension when he enters. People are huddled in groups, talking in hushed tones. Many are crying. He sees Gus and Burnie standing together, looking on as Geoff speaks quietly with one of the six enforcement officers scattered about the room. Geoff and Burnie look wrecked. There's clearly been some tears between the two of them. Gus’s face is set in a hard neutrality that is too determined to be sincere.  
  
Lindsay is in the far corner, crying the hardest of anyone in the room, otherwise left alone, aside from Barbara, who has an arm on the other woman, rubbing comforting circles on her back.  
  
Ryan is still stood in the doorway, evaluating the scene when an officer confronts him.  
  
‘You work here?’ she asks. She has this look on her face, and Ryan can't tell if it's stern or sympathetic.  
  
‘Uh, yes?’ he replies, and it sounds enough like a question that it has the officer arching a speculative eyebrow at him. ‘I mean, yeah, yes, I do,’ he says more firmly.  
  
She pulls a notepad and pen out of her belt. ‘Name?’  
  
He answers, casting a glance over his shoulder at Burnie and Gus just in time to see Geoff join them after the conclusion of his interview.  
  
‘When was the last time you had communication with either Michael Jones or Jeremy Dooley?’  
  
‘It’s been a few days. Not since they left for Myrtle Beach.’  
  
‘Gavin Free?’  
  
‘A little more than a week.’  
  
‘Address and phone number?’  
  
Ryan quickly rattles off the information, eager to learn what's going on, but the officer doesn’t stick around long enough to answer any questions. After transcribing his responses, she tells him they'll be in touch and moves on to speaking with Chris.  
  
Ryan stares blankly after her for a few seconds. Then he drags his eyes across the rest of the room, searching for an explanation or, failing that, someone to provide one. He makes almost a full circle before his gaze encounters Gus again, arms crossed firmly across his chest, still grouped with Geoff and Burnie. He's the only one who looks to be even remotely holding up, the only one with the wherewithal to _pretend_ he's unshaken.  
  
As Ryan strolls back towards Gus he hears indistinct chatter around him; they're all speaking so quietly he can't understand any of it, but he hears how grave their voices are, how distressed everyone is, and it's making his imagination run amok with the possibilities.  
  
Gus and Burnie look up as Ryan approaches, while Geoff's eyes remain fixed on the door to the conference room, beside which an officer is stationed.  
  
‘Hey,’ Burnie croaks weakly.  
  
‘Do I even want to know what's going on?’ asks Ryan.  
  
Gus’s face screws up for a second as he shakes his head, breaking only momentarily, then he recovers. ‘It, um,’ he starts before pausing to look at Geoff, who, in spite of his feigned detachment with the conversation, tensed up when Gus started speaking. Gus swallows thickly, but his voice is clear when he tells Ryan, ‘Jeremy's dead. Someone killed him.’  
  
Ryan swears his heart stops for a second before starting up again so thunderously he can feel it against his ribcage.  
  
‘They – they think,’ Burnie stammers before Geoff interrupts with a distressed noise and stalks off. They watch him go in silence before Burnie concludes, ‘They think Michael did it.’  
  
The only thing Ryan can think to say is, ‘What?’ which he barely chokes out.  
  
‘That detective who talks like he's recording an audio book, the one from that episode of _Dateline,_ he interviewed Lindsay for 45 minutes.’ Gus nods at the door. ‘It's been about ten minutes now, with Gavin. Apparently he saw Michael and Jeremy arguing yesterday.’  
  
Gus continues talking, but Ryan stops listening, instead looking about the room again, digesting the state of things. He thinks there must have been a mistake, or maybe it's an unfunny joke taken way too far. Jeremy's young, far too young to die, too inoffensive to be murdered. And Ryan doesn't believe Michael has it in him to kill anyone, let alone one of his close friends, unless it was an accident, but those sorts of accidents would happen with Geoff or Gavin, never Jeremy, who is far too level headed to do anything stupidly dangerous.  
  
He becomes suddenly cognisant of how loud the open foyer is. The high arch of the ceiling captures the low rumbling of voices, amplifies them, and projects them right back down on their heads in this horrible, disconsolate, nonsense buzz that seems to have mass. Ryan can feel it, pressing inwards and downwards so strongly he thinks he may collapse under its weight. He looks up at Gus, still talking at him, and cuts him off, declaring, ‘I’m gonna go check on Geoff.’ It's as good of an excuse as he can think of, and maybe it isn't the worst idea. Geoff will be taking this hard, possibly hard enough to be a cause for concern.  
  
Ryan pushes his way into the hall, and though it's quieter, it isn't the silence he was expecting. He can hear a voice, low and quiet, dampened like it's coming from the other side of a wall. He approaches the first door on his left, which leads into, depending on who is asked, either a large storage closet or a tiny vacant office. The door is already open, and the voice becomes clearer as Ryan approaches until he recognises it as Gavin's, though he still can't quite make sense of what he's saying.  
  
When Ryan sticks his head through the doorway into the darkened room, he finds Geoff standing against the left wall, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.  
  
‘Geoff?’  
  
The older man's gaze snaps to Ryan, and he motions for the other man to enter.  
  
Ryan creeps into the dark room and joins Geoff, easing the door partially shut behind him. The wall at which he and Geoff stand is a fake one – a large, temporary partition through which noise can easily drift, and as he approaches, the dim voice gains definition, and he can understand what Gavin is saying.  
  
‘. . . dropped me at mine. That's everything.’ His voice is small and serious, almost unrecognisable if it didn't sound so out of place in the suburbs of Austin.  
  
‘You didn't hear from either of them after that?’ a second voice asks. Ryan recognises it immediately. The detective Gus mentioned. Detective Slate. He’s a bit of a local celebrity for solving a homicide featured on an episode of _Dateline._ For weeks after that episode aired, Ryan had been subjected to shitty impressions of the man and his odd interviews with Keith Morrison and his even odder interviews with witnesses. It had started with just Miles, but soon everyone in the office was doing it, even Ryan found himself slipping into that overdramatic baritone, drawing out his words with weird pauses between syllables, speaking in patronising questions, pretending to be suspicious of the most benign of statements, which was irritating because the joke got old extremely fast, but they all continued to use it well past its expiration date.  
  
‘I went straight to bed. I didn't talk to anyone.’  
  
‘And that was at 3.30 pm?’  
  
‘About then, yeah.’  
  
Slate makes a scoffing noise. ‘Must have been some hangover.’  
  
‘Jetlag as well,’ Gavin replies, somewhat defensively.  
  
‘From Myrtle Beach to Austin?’  
  
‘From London to Myrtle Beach a couple days before that.’  
  
‘Ah, do you travel a lot?’  
  
There's an odd pause, then, ‘A bit, yeah. Sorry, what -’  
  
‘Does Michael?’  
  
‘Not as much. He was going to go back to New Jersey in a few weeks, but I guess he probably won't now.’  
  
‘So back to your story.’  
  
Ryan can hear someone pacing behind the wall.  
  
‘That was it. I went to bed, came to work, then you said you wanted a word with me.’  
  
‘You didn't hear from either of them?’ repeats Slate.  
  
A brief period of silence – long enough for Gavin to nod or shake his head.  
  
‘Not even a missed phone call or text?’  
  
The silence this time is just long enough for Burnie to push open the door to the closet, stare confused for a second, then begin to ask, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ only managing the first three words before Ryan and Geoff are quietly shushing him with sharp hand gestures as the detective’s voice sounds from the other side of the wall.  
  
‘Mr. Free, are you familiar with the term spoliation of evidence?’ Slate waits for a response, then continues, ‘Withholding evidence, then?’  
  
Gavin probably nods or gives some indication he understands what's being said. Ryan just wishes he would say it aloud.  
  
‘It’s punishable by up to five years in prison in this jurisdiction.’  
  
Geoff scowls, and Ryan knows what he's thinking. It doesn’t sound right. It _could_ be true, but more than anything, it sounds like Slate is trying to intimidate Gavin.  
  
‘How do you think you'd fare in prison, Mr. Free? . . . Not well, I’d imagine.’  
  
‘Fuck off,’ Geoff whispers at the wall.  
  
Gavin replies to Slate, but his voice is so thin Ryan can't make out what he says.  
  
‘Could you repeat that more clearly?’ requests Slate. ‘So the microphone picks it up.’  
  
Great. He's recording the interview.  
  
‘Jeremy,’ mumbles Gavin, still quiet – Ryan can barely hear him. ‘He sent a text last night. I didn't see it until about an hour back. Here.’  
  
Slate clears his throat loudly. ‘Message from Jeremy Dooley, received yesterday at 18.42,’ reads the detective. ‘“Michael has lost his fucking mind. Lol.” Message from Jeremy Dooley, received yesterday at 18.43: “Involuntary sleepover. Wtf. Lol.” Laughing emoticon.’ Hearing the casual text jargon rolling along in the detective's impressive baritone is almost funny, and if Ryan had been just a touch closer to hysteria, he may have even chuckled. But no; he and Geoff and Burnie and a fourth person, who has near-silently joined them in their closet eaves dropping session (though Ryan hasn't bothered to look over his shoulder and check who – he just notices they've left the door wide open, and the otherwise dark room is illuminated by the light of the hallway), are holding themselves in check, for now.  
  
‘The data will be submitted into evidence separately,’ continues Slate. ‘But for the sake of this interview, can you confirm that the messages you received are as read.’ A brief pause. ‘Out loud, please.’  
  
‘It is.’  
  
‘I’ll need to hold onto this phone until we can get the data from it and submit it into evidence. But you may take your SIM card. . . . Let’s go back to the fight.”  
  
‘Fight?’ Gavin repeats vacantly.  
  
‘You said they argued that morning.’  
  
Gavin's voice sounds tired and weary, and like he's terrified of saying the wrong thing, ‘Yes, but it wasn't _serious._ They were going on about sleep and snoring. Just . . .’ he fades into a mumble.  
  
‘Excuse me?’  
  
‘I said, Michael and I always fight. And he's never – he wouldn't, and it's so much more horrible than the row he had with Jeremy. Look here.’  
  
There's a pause, and Ryan can hear Geoff's breath catch in his chest as he pushes his ear fruitlessly against the wall. Ryan doesn’t doubt there’s nothing to hear. It's not like Gavin narrates every part of his life.  
  
‘Michael did that to you?’  
  
‘Yes, but -’  
  
‘Is he physically violent often?’  
  
Gavin's voice climbs an octave. ‘Physically violent? He's not at all. Look here, I'm not some battered -’  
  
‘Would you consent to having a photograph submitted into evidence?’  
  
Another long silence, and Ryan feels someone bumping up against his elbow.  
  
‘A photo of what? That mincy little scar?’  
  
‘If this is a habitual behaviour for him -’  
  
‘It isn't, though,’ and there's an aggressive insistence in Gavin's words.  
  
‘He locked you in the hotel room?’  
  
‘I don't know that,’ Gavin says, voice quiet again, not as quiet as before, but Ryan still has to struggle to hear it over a few voices murmuring softly behind him – Miles and Aaron, he thinks, maybe Chris as well – and Burnie's and Gus's voices hushing them.  
  
‘Come again.’  
  
‘I don't remember that. That's just what they – Michael and Jeremy, that’s what they said. I don't know that it happened, just that they said it did. That's hearsay, isn't it? Inadmissible and whatnot?’  
  
Slate lets out a long suffering sigh.  
  
‘It would have been for a laugh, anyway.’  
  
‘Your friend is dead, Gavin.’  
  
‘I know. It's just -’  
  
‘And you don't seem to be taking it very seriously.’  
  
‘I'm -’  
  
‘You've been antagonistic and hostile since the moment we sat down.’  
  
‘Have not!’ Gavin manages before Slate is interrupting again.  
  
‘More so than Mrs. Jones. She answered questions. She wants to clear her husband's name. You've been making snide little remarks under your breath with every response you give. How do I impress on you the severity of this situation? I'm trying to find the person who murdered your friend, Mr. Free.’  
  
‘Bollocks,’ Gavin mumbles. He doesn’t wait for Slate to ask for clarification, quietly continuing, ‘You've already decided he’s done it. You're just minged off because I've not said what you want to hear.’  
  
A hushed ‘Ooooooh’ sounds from the closet, as though they’re listening to a shitty celebrity roast instead of an interview that could land one of their co-workers in prison for the murder of another co-worker.  
  
‘Please sit down.’  
  
‘You never asked what the argument was about, y'know. Asked if they quarrelled, not what it was about.’  
  
‘Sit down, and I'll ask. . . . _Sit down._ . . . Thank you. What did they argue about?’  
  
‘Sleep apnoea,’ Gavin says simply. Then in a shaky voice, ‘Stupid, right? Michael was worried about Jeremy's health because he learnt the bastard had sleep apnoea.’  
  
‘Sleep apnoea?’ repeats Slate sceptically. ‘Well, that's -’  
  
His voice is cut off by someone's phone ringing very loudly in the still of the closet. Ryan's phone. And Slate and Gavin can hear it, and they both stop talking as Ryan fumbles with his phone, barely registering that it’s an incoming call from a blocked number that he answers in a panic, just to silence the damn thing. ‘Hello?’ he hisses into the mouthpiece as he turns around to leave the room, surprised to find almost the entire goddamned company has managed to congregate in that tiny space to listen. He tries to speak quietly, but is apparently unsuccessful because, as he pushes his way through the crowd, he hears Gavin’s voice call, ‘Ryan?’ through the wall, and there's a weird, tinny echo (albeit in a different voice) of ‘Ryan?’ from the speaker of his phone less than a second later.  
  
He stumbles out into the hallway just before the rest of the group begins to scatter like cockroaches.  
  
‘Ryan!’ the voice on his phone barks again.  
  
‘Um, yes?’ he says hesitantly into the mouthpiece, holding his phone up to his ear properly for the first time during the call.  
  
‘Ryan, it's Michael.’  
  
‘Um, uh, one minute,’ Ryan stammers in shock as he stumbles toward the closest door that leads to neither the foyer nor back to the closet. It's a bathroom. He has to shoo Mariel, who fixes him with a confused glare, from the room before he speaks to Michael. ‘Okay, I'm alone.’  
  
‘What? You don't gotta be alone. I'm not breaking a law talking to you.’  
  
‘Sorry. Just . . . Aren't you - you're in prison, right?’  
  
‘Jail, Ryebread,’ Michael says, and he sounds disappointed in Ryan. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, y'know.’  
  
‘Yeah, I don't know if the lead detective on your case feels the same.’  
  
‘That's just because all the doors and windows were locked from the inside. And I was the only other person there. And I dismantled the doorknob to get into his room. But that's just opportunity. They need means and motive too.’  
  
Ryan is taken aback, a little shaken and disturbed by how uncomfortably nonchalant Michael is being about this. If Gavin isn't, in the words of Detective Slate, aware of _the severity of this situation,_ then Michael doesn't even know there is a situation.  
  
‘You know Jeremy's dead, right? And they think you killed him?’  
  
Michael doesn't say anything for a while. Ryan thinks he may have hung up, but when he checks the screen, he can see the counter still ticking. He presses it back to his ear again. ‘Michael?’  
  
‘I know,’ Michael says weakly, and for the first time, Ryan can hear that Michael feels the weight of Jeremy's death. ‘I know. I just – I can't really – I don't – I can't mourn right now. I can't mourn right now because if I do, it'll all fall apart, and there are other things I need to do before I let that happen. And I could _really_ use some help here.’  
  
Ryan gulps. He doesn’t especially want to get dragged into this, but it can't hurt to ask, ‘What do you need?’  
  
The levity is back in Michael's voice as he replies, ‘Technically, I can only call someone to arrange bail or seek legal counsel. So take your pick.’  
  
‘Michael, I don't know anything about law, and I seriously doubt I make enough to cover the bail of a suspected murderer.’  
  
‘You know I didn't do it, right?’  
  
Michael sounds a little nervous about Ryan's response, but Ryan doesn’t even think before he's answering, ‘Of course, but I'm not the person who sets your bail.’  
  
‘’Kay. It was just the way you said it. I thought maybe . . . I guess it doesn't matter. But look, visiting hours end at noon. Just come in, and we can talk about it.’  
  
Ryan scrunches up his face in confusion. ‘About what?’  
  
‘Bail. Meeting bail.’  
  
‘Michael, I -’  
  
‘I winked. You couldn't see it ‘cause we're on the phone, but I winked.’  
  
‘Oh?’  
  
Michael really isn't doing much to clarify what he wants, though at this point, Ryan supposes that's intentional.  
  
‘Not like I want your body. We just need to talk . . . about quote, unquote bail.’  
  
Ryan's mouth opens and closes noiselessly as he tries to articulate any sort of thought. He looks like an especially stupid fish. The first sound he's able to successfully produce is a horribly incoherent, ‘Uhhh.’  
  
‘They can listen to the phone calls. I’m allowed privacy during a visit,’ explains Michael.  
  
‘You know you’re making yourself sound really suspicious, right?’ manages Ryan.  
  
‘I don't think they can convict me just because I _sound_ suspicious. Besides, they can just call you to testify. And you'll tell the truth ‘cause you're an honest guy. It's fine. It's just that right now, I need you to say you'll come talk to me about my options for paying bail or give me legal advice.’  
  
Ryan sighs, regretting his decision before even vocalising it.  
  
‘All right.’

  


_Monday, 11.17  
_  
Michael opens the conversation with, ‘You're going to think I'm crazy,’ which isn’t a fair assessment because Ryan already thinks the man sitting across from him is crazy, no _going tos_ about it – not crazy enough to have killed Jeremy, but . . . crazy.  
  
‘Michael, you need to call a lawyer,’ Ryan says, in that calm, slow, condescending tone that is usually reserved for his children . . . or Gavin.  
  
‘Yeah, I'll do that. I just - you're smart.’  
  
‘I didn't go to law school.’  
  
‘I don't need _law_ advice,’ insists Michael.  
  
‘I think you do.’  
  
‘I need -’ Abruptly Michael stops and violently massages his face with his manacled hands. ‘I do. You're right, but first I need to make sure this doesn't happen again.’  
  
‘You mean, like there’s a serial killer?’  
  
‘No. . . . I don't know. Can monsters be serial killers?’  
  
Well, how about that. Michael was actually right. Ryan _did_ now think he was crazy or, at least, crazier. ‘A monster?’  
  
‘You didn't see him!’ cries Michael desperately. ‘The door was locked, the window was locked, and he was – no human could have done that, Ryan. It was all blood, like someone had taken a handful of knives and scraped everything off.’  
  
‘So your working theory here is that a monster was able to bypass the locks and kill Jeremy?’ asks Ryan sceptically. ‘Like a ghost?’  
  
‘Or a dream monster or some shit,’ Michael babbles. ‘Those exist, right?’  
  
‘Define _exist.’  
_  
Michael shrinks a little in his seat, eyes cast down at the table between them. His voice is thin and desperate when he speaks again. ‘Fine. You don't believe me. You don't have to. You just have to help me.’  
  
‘Michael, right now, what you seem to be telling me is that you think Freddy Krueger mistook Jeremy for a teenager and murdered him. Is that right?’  
  
Michael's face rapidly pales. ‘I _didn't.’_ He stills, considering the implications. ‘If it's after young looking people, everyone except maybe Barb and me should be safe unless . . . Shit, when’s the last time Gavin shaved?’  
  
‘Michael, you sound _insane.’  
_  
‘When Gavin doesn’t shave, he looks like a seventy-year-old homeless man. When he does, he looks young enough to be one of those old-looking kids in the _Elm Street_ movies!’  
  
‘I was kidding!’  
  
‘I just need you to tell Aaron to keep an eye on Barb when she's sleeping.’  
  
‘Michael.’  
  
‘No, listen, if she starts struggling, he needs to wake her up immediately. And I need you to do the same for Gavin.’  
  
‘I don't share a house with Gavin. And I _definitely_ don't share a bed with him.’  
  
‘Ryan, please!’  
  
Ryan meets Michael's pleading eyes. With a pang of guilt, for the first time it occurs to him that maybe Michael did this. He can't comprehend the motivation behind it, but this otherworldly explanation could reasonably be a way for Michael to justify his actions to himself. Or perhaps it's the reverse, and the events of the day have caused a psychotic break of sorts.  
  
Ryan sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He can feel the desperation radiating off of Michael. Michael believes what he’s saying; that much is certain.  
  
‘All right,’ Ryan sighs, though at this juncture, he isn't sure if he's honestly committing to doing as Michael says or just trying to appease the other man.  
  
Michael releases a long, relieved exhale of air. ‘Thanks. Seriously, Ryan. I owe you.’

  


_Monday, 13.32  
_  
Ryan sits uncomfortably in the quiet and otherwise empty Achievement Hunter office. No one is in high spirits. Ryan is positive Michael has lost it, and is less sure he's entirely innocent. Michael wasn't even granted bail. Too much of a flight risk, they determined. Ryan can see that. There are a lot of things about Michael he can see in a different light these past few hours.  
  
But when Gavin enters and sinks down into the chair in front of his desk, Ryan feels the weight of Michael's faith.  
  
‘Hey Gavin, you wanna,’ he pauses. He was going to invite Gavin over to his house, but he definitely doesn’t want the man knowing where he lives, so he course corrects the question to, ‘You want me to come over tonight?’  
  
‘What?’ asks Gavin blankly. His eyes are hooded and gloomy.  
  
‘Do you. Want me. To come over. Tonight?’ repeats Ryan slowly.  
  
Gavin's face lights up not inconsiderably. ‘Like a slumber party?’  
  
‘Um.’  
  
‘We can stay up late, bake cookies, play Halo, build a blanket fort, get bevved -’  
  
‘I'm not getting “bevved".’  
  
‘Ryan,’ Gavin whines.  
  
‘You can drink with Geoff.’  
  
‘Geoff's off the wagon.’  
  
Ryan pauses and eyes Gavin suspiciously. ‘Like I said, you can drink with Geoff,’ he says at that condescendingly slow pace again.  
  
‘No, the _fun_ wagon, Ryan. The wagon with the bevs and the parties and everything worth doing in life.’  
  
‘And liver disease,’ adds Ryan.  
  
‘Naah. That's a myth.’  
  
‘Doesn’t matter. I don't want to party with you.’  
  
Gavin's face drops into a pout.  
  
‘I'm just worried about you and Geoff. I figure this has to be hardest on you guys.’  
  
Gavin gives Ryan a funny look.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Well, Lindsay's husband is in jail.’  
  
Oops. ‘Aside from her, obviously.’  
  
‘And Jeremy does have family members and such.’  
  
‘Yeah, I don't _know_ them.’  
  
‘And aren't your kids poorly?’  
  
‘Forget it,’ Ryan grumbles, and he means it. He doesn't _need_ to satisfy Michael's bizarre delusion, and really, Gavin makes a good point about his kids. Michael's situation may be direr than Ryan’s wife’s and children's, but he never took a vow that said he had to do _anything_ for Michael, in sickness or in health, like he did for his wife. Besides, even when she was deathly ill, Ryan's wife was far more pleasant to look at than Gavin.  
  
Ryan returns to his work, pulling headphones over his ears so he won't have to listen to whatever Gavin gets up to. He's nearly fifteen minutes into editing when Gavin rolls up next him on his chair. The younger man just watches Ryan work for a few minutes, chin resting on his forearms folded on the desk.  
  
After nearly ten minutes have elapsed, he hears Gavin mumble his name into the crook of his arm.  
  
Not bothering to look away from the screen, Ryan makes a noise of acknowledgement.  
  
Then Gavin is sitting up, yanking the headphones off of Ryan's head, and saying, ‘You could bloody well pay attention when I'm about to bare my soul to you.’  
  
‘I don't think I want to see your naked soul, Gavin. It's all mottled and gross.’  
  
‘I'm perfectly lovely.’  
  
‘I'm trying to work here. What do you want?’  
  
‘I want you to come over tonight,’ Gavin mutters. He forces a little smile when he sees Ryan looking at him. ‘Not for me. Geoff's right bothered, and Griffon's out of town. I wouldn't leave him to himself anyway, but it'd be nice not to go it alone, yanno?’  
  
‘You were right. I need to take care of my family.’  
  
‘Kay,’ Gavin replies, barely more than a whisper. With a pathetic look on his face, he begins to wheel away.  
  
Ryan feels a sharp pang of guilt that is amplified when his memory of Michael's desperation rears its ugly head. ‘Gavin, wait,’ orders Ryan, slapping a hand down on the armrest of Gavin's chair so it comes to a stop. ‘I'll be over at six.’

  
__

_  
_

_Tuesday, 6.04  
_  
In spite of what Gavin said about Geoff being _right bothered,_ he seems to be holding it together when Ryan arrives. Geoff is quieter than normal, but he isn’t a blubbering wreck, and he hasn’t turned to drink, like Gavin has, though Gavin certainly isn't drunk. When Ryan shows up, they are a quarter hour into building something in _Minecraft_ ,ostensibly something for work, which is odd, since they haven't participated in builds for nearly a year, and they aren't recording anything. Ryan suspects they will never use whatever it is Geoff and Gavin are building, and that it is more of a coping mechanism than anything else. Ryan joins them for a couple of hours, then they switch to one of the _Peggle_ games, and Ryan elects to sit that one out.  
  
A little after nine, Geoff calls it a night, and Gavin and Ryan switch to playing a series of card games. They do that until nearly one in the morning when Ryan, who is used to being asleep by 9.30 at the latest, begins nodding off.  
  
The third time Gavin nudges him awake, it's with a pithy, ‘If you're going to sleep, that's a forfeit.’  
  
Ryan peels open his eyes to look at the man sitting on the couch beside him. He watches a cat wander across the armrest behind Gavin, the little bell on the strap around its neck jingling with every step. It has to be the loudest cat bell Ryan has ever heard. The cat reaches the end of the armrest and slinks into Gavin’s lap. The man gathers it up in his arms, pressing his face into its fur so that his voice is muffled when he says, ‘The guest room is permanently set up.’  
  
‘I'm not sleeping,’ insists Ryan unconvincingly. He stretches a little and sits up straighter, squinting through the haze of exhaustion at Gavin and the cat.  
  
‘Okay, your turn, then.’ Gavin gestures at the pile of cards on the otherwise empty cushion between them with his free arm.  
  
Ryan stares vacantly at the cards in his hand. Shit, he can't even remember what game they’re playing right now. It couldn't be Fish, could it? His eyes travel back up to Gavin, who gives him a sympathetic look, but his face is bright and showing no signs of fatigue. How is Gavin not affected by the late hour?  
  
‘Aren't you tired?’ asks Ryan.  
  
‘Nah,’ Gavin replies. ‘Slept a tonne Sunday. Probably won't do it again till after work.’  
  
‘That doesn’t sound healthy.’  
  
Gavin gives a disinterested shrug. ‘You don't have to sit up with me. I have Egg.’  
  
Ryan hums his acknowledgement, his sleepy eyelids beginning to droop again. He supposes that’s good enough. He promised Michael he would keep an eye on Gavin when he slept, but if Gavin isn't sleeping, then Ryan really has no reason to watch him. Yeah, this is fine, he thinks as he settles into sleep.  
  
As soon as he's dropped off, a frantic jingling rouses him. He opens his eyes in time to see Egg finish scratching its ear with its hind foot. That's an idea.  
  
‘Ryan?’ asks Gavin cautiously as the older man reaches out to pull Egg into his lap.  
  
Ryan deftly unclips the collar from around the cat’s neck then grabs Gavin's arm, wraps it around his wrist twice, and fastens it.  
  
The bell makes a gentle tinkling noise as Gavin pulls away, looking rightfully confused. ‘Ryan?’ he repeats, bemused and entertained. ‘What is this? Is this a perversion, like with the Edgars? Are you being kinky, Ryan? Lovely Ryan? Because I . . . _dig it.’  
_  
‘No.’  
  
‘Aw.’  
  
‘I promised Michael.’  
  
That just confuses Gavin even more. ‘You promised Michael you would strap a bloody cat collar to my wrist?’  
  
‘Nah, the bell. Michael's crazy,’ chuckles Ryan unhelpfully. It seems funnier in the throes of exhaustion.  
  
‘Is not,’ Gavin replies bitterly, all traces of amusement gone from his voice.  
  
‘He thinks Freddy Krueger's gonna kill you.’  
  
‘And the bell will stop that, will it?’  
  
‘It'll wake me up if you fall asleep, and something happens.’  
  
‘Oh.’  
  
Ryan closes his eyes again and reclines on the couch. He hears Gavin shift.  
  
‘That's a little terrifying.’  
  
‘It's idiotic,’ corrects Ryan.  
  
‘Almost makes sense.’  
  
Ryan refuses to validate that nonsense with a response.  
  
‘Ryan? Did you see Jeremy's body?’  
  
‘Nope.’  
  
‘It's gruesome.’  
  
Ryan quirks an eyebrow, keeping his eyes clenched shut. ‘You saw it?’  
  
‘That rinsey little prat detective showed me photos. It's awful. Could have been done by some nightmare bloke with knife-finger-gloves.’  
  
‘Gavin, you’re way too old for this,’ groans Ryan. ‘Michael's too old for this, but he had some sort of mental break, so I'll let it go.’  
  
‘Then why are you here, if you aren't worried about it?’  
  
Ryan eases open one eye. ‘Because I’m a good friend and a horrible husband.’  
  
Gavin doesn't reply for a while, then, after Ryan has started dozing off again, he hears a gentle, ‘Good night, Ryan.’

_  
_  
_ _

_Tuesday, 7.14  
_  
Gavin didn't sleep. Ryan knows this because every time the older man neared the REM cycle, the bell would jingle, and Ryan would awake to find Gavin reading or playing a game or getting a snack, never in mortal danger, always looking apologetic. The final time Ryan wakes is not to bells but to whispers.  
  
Geoff asking Gavin if he slept in the main house. Gavin giving an incomplete, noncommittal answer. Discussions of the funeral, when Griffon would return, how Lindsay was coping. It all halfway registers with Ryan's drowsy brain. Then he hears a woman talking, a news presenter or field reporter doing some inane human interest story about service cats for people with diabetes. Whoever wrote the piece had a penchant for cat puns that Barbara would appreciate.  
  
‘Your cat is fucking useless,’ Geoff mutters to Gavin as adverts come on.  
  
‘Nah, she could do that.’  
  
‘She's gonna eat your face one day, dude.’  
  
‘You think I would just allow a cat to _eat_ my face?’  
  
‘You'll be dead and alone as dicks when she does it.’  
  
‘Oh. That's not all bad, then. I'll be absolutely thrilled she outlived me.’ Gavin laughs gently, and Ryan hears the bell as he moves his arm. Geoff doesn't comment on it. Ryan wonders if Gavin has explained the bell situation, or if Geoff has just accepted that Gavin does strange things, so he doesn't think it's worth questioning.  
  
Ryan gingerly sits up and roughly musses his hair.  
  
‘Morning Sunshine,’ chirps Geoff. ‘Sleep well?’  
  
‘Not really.’  
  
‘Sorry,’ Gavin says.  
  
Geoff laughs. He probably thinks it was a half-arsed sex joke. His laughter stops abruptly when Ryan replies, ‘Don’t worry about it. It was my idea.’  
  
‘Worked well. ‘Cept for the mortal peril part. That didn't happen.’  
  
‘What's -’ Geoff starts, but Gavin waves him off.  
  
‘’S not worth talking about. Something silly Ryan heard.’  
  
Ryan isn't sure what _that_ is, if Gavin is trying to protect Geoff from the idea that Michael may not be entirely sane, or if he's trying to protect the memory of who they thought Michael was. Whatever the case, Gavin should be preparing himself for the worst case scenario right about now, but he has this blind, apparently unshakeable affection for the other man.  
  
‘Whatever,’ is Geoff's succinct response as he climbs to his feet just in time for the news to come back on. ‘Either of you going to work today?’  
  
Gavin nods faintly; Ryan doesn't, but he doesn't shake his head in the negative either.  
  
‘Are you not?’ asks Gavin  
  
Geoff shrugs.  
  
In an offended tone, Gavin demands, ‘You’re bunking off?’  
  
‘It’s called bereavement leave, dick-for-brains. You can take it too.’  
  
‘And be stuck with my thoughts all day? I’d rather not.’  
  
‘Then fucking don't. It's up to you.’  
  
‘Yes, but how'm I intended to get to work if you're not driving?’  
  
‘I'll do it,’ Ryan volunteers.  
  
‘There ya go. Jesus Christ, you whine so much,’ Geoff says, ducking out into the foyer on his way to the kitchen, just in time for the news presenter to drone, ‘But first, disturbing news out of Austin this morning,’ in a tone too professional to convey how _disturbing_ the upcoming story really is.  
  
That stops Geoff dead in his tracks, and he pops his head back through the doorway to listen.  
  
‘Local YouTube celebrity Michael Jones, who was being held by police under suspicion of the murder of his co-worker, a Mr. Jeremy Dooley, was found dead in his cell this morning at the county courthouse. Authorities maintain that no foul play is at work, and that there is security footage to document their claim, but that footage, which authorities describe as _too graphic for public consumption_ has not been released. The officer who found Jones’s body has not commented on the incident. No word yet on how this will affect the ongoing investigation into Dooley's death.’  
  
Then it's over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.: Everything I know about the American justice system I learned from old procedural shows. So it's probably very wrong.


End file.
